


Thank You For The Tea

by KLStarre



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Post-Canon, alcohol mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-27 07:43:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6275656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KLStarre/pseuds/KLStarre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hell is different for everyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thank You For The Tea

**Author's Note:**

> This was for a prompt meme on Tumblr. The meme was "Ways You Say I Love You" and the prompt was 4. Over a cup of tea.

            After the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t, Crowley is collected by Hell. To talk to him, they say. To make sure their ideals align, that Crowley isn’t planning any further treason. Aziraphale and Crowley both know that they won’t just be talking. They have discussed the possibility of one or the other of them being recalled over the years enough that they think that they are prepared for it.

            They are not.

            Crowley leaves, willingly, telling himself that maybe if he doesn’t resist too much they’ll let him go sooner rather than later. “They won’t hurt me. I’ll be back before you know it,” is what he tells Aziraphale, and he almost manages to keep his voice from shaking.

            Aziraphale lets him go, maybe because he wants to believe the demon that no harm will come to him; maybe he is simply afraid. Months later, when Crowley still hasn’t come back and Aziraphale has nightmares about his screams, he hates himself for it.

            Weeks turn into months, months turn into years, and still there is no sign. Aziraphale has taken to not leaving his bookshop, because he knows that this is where Crowley will come when (if?) he is freed, and he can’t bear the thought of not being there for him.

            Finally, exactly six years, six months, and six days after Crowley was taken, he returns. He knocks on the door even though it is unlocked and has always been unlocked, and when Aziraphale lets him in, he sways on the sidewalk, blood running down his face. He is gaunt, his eyes snakelike and more tired than Aziraphale has ever seen them. He is, at best, a shadow of his former self.

            Aziraphale says nothing. Not, _Are you alive?_ Not, _Where have you been?_ Not, _Who hurt you, dear boy, because if I ever find out_ I _am going to hurt_ them? Instead, he passes Crowley a spare pair of sunglasses that he always keeps on his person, and Crowley looks at them, stunned, before placing them gingerly on the bridge of his nose.

            When Aziraphale is sure that he is responsive, he takes the taller man’s arm and wraps it around his shoulders, letting Crowley lean on him as he walks him inside. He helps him sit on a couch on the back, the only piece of furniture besides bookcases in the entire shop, and then speaks for the first time. “Tea?” he asks, knowing full well that he will be rejected. Crowley will want wine, probably, or vodka. Something alcoholic to drown himself in.

            “Okay,” Crowley says, his voice subdued, and that is when Aziraphale knows that something is well and truly wrong.

            He doesn’t mention it. He blames himself enough to think that Crowley won’t want his commentary. With a wave of his hand, he summons up two cups of tea and passes one to Crowley in silence. Aziraphale remains standing, but he is close enough to see Crowley’s hand shake as he takes it. He is close enough to see that he does not take a sip.

            “We have to end this,” Crowley says.

            “What?” Aziraphale asks, startled once more into speech.

            “This thing, between us. This friendship or affair or whatever you consider it. It’s not fair to either of us, and it’s sure as hell not fair to me.”

            “I don’t –”

            Crowley cuts him off, his voice getting louder and louder as he speaks. “I don’t care! Goddammit, angel, do you know what they _did_ to me? I thought it was worth it, I thought you were worth it, I thought you would fight to keep me here, but instead you just let them drag me off and – and torture me for however long it was. Because I’m just a game to you, aren’t I? I’m just another plaything, another demon to try to bring back to the light or whatever the _heaven_ you’re trying to do –”

            “I love you.” Aziraphale interrupts, the words ripping from him before he has time to think. It’s possible that if he listens to any more of this he will explode. “I love you and I let you go because I was afraid. And I’m sorry. There is nothing I can do to make up for that, but you are not a plaything. You never were.”

            Even as he says it, Aziraphale can tell that it’s not enough. Even as he says it, he can feel Crowley slipping away from him.

            Crowley stands up painfully, leaving his cup on the arm of the chair. “Thank you for the tea,” he says, his voice more sad than angry, and then he walks away.

           


End file.
